Memory is a Loaded Gun
by RainbowBetty
Summary: What you choose to remember defines you. What you try to forget has a way of finding you. Plausibly in-canon child abuse: you are warned.


Some stories are told in reverse.

* * *

5.  
"Dean, look. I'm sorry."

"You're not sorry. You don't get it. You never did."

Dean raised a finger and nodded at the bartender, who brought over another shot, replacing Dean's empty glass.

"Don't say that. Hey." Sam caught Dean's arm by the elbow, stopping him in mid-reach and looking at him pointedly. "That's three. Pace yourself, man."

Dean jerked his arm away and picked up the whiskey. "You got somethin' to say to me, Sam?"

"Yeah. That I'm _sorry._ Come on, Dean. I didn't mean to make you... it's just that we both know—"

"What?" Dean tossed the shot back, downing it in one swallow, and set it down harder than he'd intended on the polished surface of the bar. The bartender looked up at the sound and Dean caught his eye, nodding again. Then he turned deliberately sideways to face Sam. _"What_ do we both know, Sam, huh? This your idea of some deep-dark family secret? You think it's gonna change the way I feel—the way I've _always_ felt—about Dad? No matter what problems you have with him. Because I'll tell you what, Sam. Dad was a _hero."_

Sam looked down and grit his teeth before answering, his hands clenching into fists in his lap, echoing his resolve. "And what about the rest of it, Dean? What about the truth?"

* * *

4.  
Sam fiddled with the folded piece of paper in his jacket pocket, leaning against the outside wall of Rufus' cabin. He'd been waiting for Dean to get back for nearly an hour, and now that he saw the approaching outline of the Impala, he almost lost his nerve and headed back inside.

It would be easy enough to pretend he'd never found the letter. Easy to never say a word about it. Easy to go on forever with their shared truth never voiced, never acknowledged, not even in the passing of a knowing glance.

No, it _wasn't_ easy, though. He was so tired of doubting himself, being made to feel like the crazy one because none of it was supposed to have happened. Because Dad was _Dad_, the man they had always looked up to no matter what.

No matter _what._

He could feel himself cringing from the rehearsed line. He heard it in his head in Dean's voice and in his own, something both whispered in the dead of night and screamed at each other through punches that left them bruised and spitting blood and clinging desperately to each other for reassurance. The words both comforted Sam and made him feel sick.

He wrapped his fingers around the meager proof he had in his pocket and met Dean on the porch, stopping him with a hand pressed flat against his chest. "Hey, can I—I found something in Bobby's books that I... Can I talk to you?"

Dean's brow wrinkled in confusion mixed with concern, giving Sam that odd smile he got whenever his little brother wasn't making sense. "Yeah, something on the shifter?"

Sam pulled out the letter and unfolded it, handing it to Dean without a word.

As Dean read it, Sam watched his eyes grow harder and more distant until he finally held the page back out to Sam, refusing to look him in the eye. "Take this back," Dean said, gesturing with it.

Sam's breath sat trapped in his chest, and he couldn't bring himself to reach out and take it. Dean finally simply let it go, letting it drop from his fingers, and he turned on his heel and stalked back toward the car. The letter fluttered to the ground where Dean had stood, and Sam gathered his wits and chased after him.

* * *

3.  
Sam was the one who found the letter. It was in an unstamped envelope, addressed to Pastor Jim and folded in half lengthwise, stuck between the pages of Bobby's copy of _Illuminated History of the Dark Ages._ There was no mistaking Bobby's handwriting, or the yellowed age of the paper that betrayed just how many years it had been hidden there.

Sam wondered if Bobby had forgotten about it or tucked it away there on purpose. He hesitated for a moment, worried about invading the old man's privacy even in death, but as stood there touching something so personal and _real_ of Bobby's, he couldn't help wanting that connection. Bobby's books and papers were part of him, but this piece of paper might hold Bobby's own words and thoughts.

Sam smiled fondly as he ran his finger under the flap, sliding the aged piece of notebook paper out of the envelope to flatten it out along the creases.

Sam felt his world tilt around him, then narrow to a tunnel so that all he could see was the piece of paper in front of him. The words themselves said so little, while the angry slashes of Bobby's penmanship spoke a secondary language all their own. It shone a bright, unforgiving light into the darkest corners of Sam's childhood, reopening old wounds and dragging their secrets out—the things he'd only ever hinted at, thought they had hidden so well. Thought they had buried and covered up.

"It's all in your head, Sam."

Lucifer had mocked him in the same, pitifully disappointed tone that he'd heard from his father, and just the thought of Lucifer's voice made Sam want to dig his fingers into his head and rip the memories out. It wasn't just Hell anymore. It was the shameful, gut-wrenching realization of just how well and obediently trained he'd been at subjugating his own reality for another's. That only came from a lifetime of practice.

But oh god, he wasn't crazy. Bobby had seen it too, had written it down. This was proof.

* * *

2.  
Bobby waited until after the boys were upstairs and John had pulled out of the drive before he sat down at his desk, rubbing one hand under his cap and then setting it back on his head before taking out a sheet of notebook paper.

_Jim,_  
_I got John's boys at my place this week. John's on a hunt in Mississippi. Dean's got his arm in a cast, he says from a rifle that went off wrong. Boy's thirteen years old, shoots better than I do. You gonna tell me something ain't right about that? He won't talk about it, neither will Sam, but I… never mind, let's just say I got suspicions I hope ain't founded. John's as much of a mule as ever, but if I find out he's the kind of father that hits his kids I'll put that rifle up his ass. Damn him anyway for dragging them into this life. _

_Let me talk to the boys before you do anything about social services. All this tap dancing around it is giving me a nervous condition. _  
_Bobby_

He folded it and set it aside, intending to mail it in the morning. He'd talk to Dean. Maybe... if anyone could get Dean to open up about fathers it was him. He shoved down the swell of panic that brought up in him. Dammit, he _had to_ talk about it. He'd been a coward all his life, but he didn't get to be a coward where these two boys were concerned.

Bobby opened the drawer of his desk and hurriedly unscrewed the cap on his flask, taking a quick swallow and resealing it before he could change his mind. He just... had to be honest. Get Dean to be honest with _him, _about John. Easier said than done, maybe. He knew he wouldn't have ratted out his old man. But Dean was different. Dean was, well... Dean had Sam.

* * *

1.  
Dean winced, pulling his arm in toward his chest and curling in on his side. Sam knelt beside him on the bed.

"Tell me what to do," Sam begged. "Dean, it's bad. Please."

Dean shook his head, breathing tightly. He tried to push Sam back with his good hand, but quickly clamped it back down on around his swollen forearm again with a hiss of pain. They could both see the purplish-black bruises forming where John had grabbed him. It made Sam's chest clench in sympathy and something much darker—fury and outrage, although he kept those buried deep inside because he knew what it cost Dean when Sam forgot, refused to listen, stepped out of line.

"What if it's broken?" Sam asked worriedly.

"It's fine," Dean assured him, trying to sound fine. "Just gotta make it through the night, I'll show Dad in the morning if it's still bad. Might not be bad. Honest Sammy. Just try to get some sleep."

_"Dean,"_ Sam's eyes were wide and fearful. The night would stretch on like an eternity, his brother in terrible pain beside him the entire time. It was unthinkable. He scrambled down off the bed, careful not to shake the mattress. "Ice, I'll get some ice. Is that right?"

Dean managed a grin. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be good, Sam. Ice'll help."

"Okay. What else, Dean? What can I do?"

"Just—_aah!"_ He drew in around a sharp pain from a wrong move. Sam rushed around to the other side of the bed, planting both hands on his brother's shoulders and breathing with him, as if that would help slow Dean's rapid, shallow breaths. "Just..." Dean tried again, "don't wake Dad."

"Dean, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry he—"

"Don't, Sam. Look. This wouldn't have happened if i knew how to handle a gun properly. It was a stupid mistake."

"No! No, it wasn't _you_, Dean!"

"Yeah, it... Listen, Sam. This is important. Whatever Dad tells you, you do, okay? Can—can you do that for me? You'd do that, right?"

Sam clutched Dean's shoulders tighter. "We could run away," he whispered, his voice barely a breath. "Dean—"

Sam felt the slap sharply against the side of his face as Dean's good hand shot out at him unexpectedly, and he heard Dean grunt with pain at the same time he did. Tears stung his eyes, and he looked back at Dean to see tears in Dean's eyes too.

"Dad's a hunter," Dean said in a trembling voice that said he expected Sam to understand, dropping it to a whisper as the last few words passed between them. "Dad's a hunter. He's a hero. And we're—we're _nobody_ to anybody, you got that?"

* * *

0.  
Dean barely dared to breathe next to John on the drive home. He could almost feel John's anger radiating from where he sat, his spine straight as a rod against the passenger's seat and his stomach in a knot.

"Honestly, I don't know who you think you are sometimes," John muttered under his breath. He didn't take his eyes off the road ahead, but Dean knew it was directed at him.

_Nobody,_ Dean's mind offered, the thought making him shrink lower in his seat. He gritted his teeth and looked down at his hands clenched into fists in his lap, willing himself not to sink further.

They pulled into the drive of the small cabin they had rented, and John slammed the gear into park. "Out of the car," he ordered. "Sam, take the bags inside. Dean, you come get the weapons."

Sam hesitated, his wide eyes watching Dean.

"I said, now!" John barked, flinging the duffle into the dirt at Sam's feet. Sam jumped back a step, but didn't move to obey. He didn't take his eyes off Dean. Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam in warning and mouthed the word _go_ with a nod back at the cabin. Sam frowned and shook his head. His eyes flickered fearfully to John, then back Dean.

_I'm not gonna leave you, _Sam's eyes said, and he made a pretense of bending slowly to pick up the strap of the bag as John walked around the side of the car.

"Dean!" John hollered from the rear of the car.

"Yes sir," Dean mumbled, snapping into motion even though every part of him felt like lead. John pulled his head out of the trunk and thrust a rifle at him.

"You know the difference between a large caliber weapon and a handgun?" he demanded. "You remember _anything _I say to you, or you just pretend to listen when I talk?"

"Yessir. I—I mean... n-no. Sir." Dean frowned at the ground, trying to parse the right answer. "I listen," he amended.

John tossed the gun back disgustedly in the trunk. "Then why'd I watch you try to shoot that off one-handed?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't think, I just— it turned on Sam and I—"

"You didn't _think."_ John grabbed Dean's arm, twisting Dean up toward him and nearly lifting him off the ground. "You _want_ to lose an arm, that's a damn good way to do it! I've seen some stupid, careless shit from you, Dean, but when you put Sam's life in danger like that, there's no excuse. I need your head in the game._ All the time. _You got me?"

Dean forced himself to nod, to not yelp in pain when his dad dropped him, to breathe through it the way he'd been taught. "Ye—yes, yes sir," he stammered. He brought himself back up to his knees, then to his feet. _No tears, no tears, no tears,_ he chanted in his head. _Cry later if you have to, not now._

He reached for the weapons his dad handed him and glanced back at the empty doorway, relieved at least that Sam hadn't seen.

* * *

6.  
Dean picked up the fourth shot and looked at Sam. "Truth. That's funny. You want to talk about truth, Sam? How about all the times you ran away and _left us."_

"Don't do that. God, Dean, don't. Not now."

"Why not? It's the _truth._ You know what else is the truth? That you never loved Dad. That you took every opportunity to use his weaknesses against him. The man was _human_, Sam! But you never forgave him for that, did you?"

"No, I never forgave him for _hitting _us," Sam said quietly.

Dean blinked. He frowned slightly, and his mouth formed a "w" as if wanted to question or deny it. Then he swallowed hard and set his glass back down on the bar, untouched.

Sam stared at the full shot for a moment as conversations rose and fell in the bar around them, piercing the silence that hung heavy between them.

Dean might just leave, Sam thought, waiting for a reaction. Or punch him, or yell, or throw something, or lean in close to say something truly hurtful.

He wasn't expecting Dean to sit there, numbly, as if watching Sam for a similar reaction.

"I just..." Sam ventured hesitantly, "I wonder why Bobby never sent that letter. Do you think—"

"It was me," Dean said bluntly. "Because of me. My fault."

"What do you mean?"

"Bobby knew, okay? His old man, he was a bastard. So yeah, he knew. He asked me about my arm, and if Dad ever..." Dean looked at Sam, silently pleading with him not to make him say it. "You know."

"So you told him?" Sam asked, a bit awed that Dean had dared.

Dean looked down, pain creasing his whole face. "I told him... that if he ever said a word about it, he'd never see you or me again. That I'd see to it Dad knew what a lying, backstabbing son of a bitch he was." He inhaled, unshed tears rimming his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Sam. I could have stopped it all, and I was too afraid."

"Dean, no."

"Everything he ever did to you, it was because I kept quiet. Don't you get it? I _let _him, Sam."

"Don't you think I felt the same way? Don't you think I _knew _every time you took a beating for me? I _let _him hit _you._ Instead of me. Every time, Dean."

"You didn't have a choice."

Sam looked at him steadily, making sure Dean's gaze was locked with his before he said, _"You_ didn't."

This was the knowing, the understanding, the shared truth that Sam had needed from Dean his whole life. It was what Dean had never even known he'd needed as he'd denied, denied, denied.

"But _he _did, Dean," Sam insisted. "Dad did the best he could, yeah. I get that, I do. But don't tell his lies for him. Don't beat yourself up _for_ him."

Dean shook his head, trying to reject the truth of it but feeling it hit home in a way he wasn't expecting. "Sam..."

"That bullshit you told me about being nobody? I knew it was bullshit. Because you were always _everything _to me."

Dean caught his lip between his teeth. _No tears,_ he told himself sternly. _Cry later._ Only then did he realize he was actually smiling, and that Sam was smiling back.

"Same here, Sammy," he said.

* * *

_End_


End file.
